


Knight Of Love

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Established Relationship, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sherlock is a Brat, Sherlock is a Mess, Sibling Incest, Top Mycroft Holmes, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:01:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24622036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Mycroft has received a special honour. Sherlock does not approve and Mycroft is keen on finding out why.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 19
Kudos: 146





	1. Chapter 1

“Oh, Myc, we are so proud of you!” Mummy’s voice was suspiciously shaky.

“Careful. It’s _Sir_ Myc now,” corrected Sherlock with heavy irony, knowing that Mycroft hated this short form of his name, if it was decorated with a ‘sir’ or not.

Mycroft smiled wryly. “Thank you, Mummy.” His mother looked pretty intimidated in her best dress, and Father in his ill-fitting best suit had alarmingly flushed cheeks. He had kept on looking around in wonder. “Let’s go now, shall we?” For him, this environment was nothing special anymore and Sherlock was not impressed in the least (actually Mycroft could be thankful that baby brother had not shown up in nothing but a bed sheet this time) but he could imagine that their parents would talk about this day non-stop now.

He winced when Father hit him on the shoulder on one side and Sherlock stepped into his personal space to brush over the other shoulder.

“Just making sure he didn’t damage your fancy suit with that sword,” rumbled the younger man, making goose bumps break out on Mycroft's neck when his breath, smelling of peppermint and Earl Grey, ghosted over his face. Too close…

He glowered at Sherlock but was, very unsurprisingly, ignored.

“No. Everything’s in order,” Sherlock decided. “Not a hair out of place, either.” He raised his hand and Mycroft made a horrified step backwards before he could be petted like an old dog. It brought him a sparkle from those incredible eyes.

“Sherlock… Stop teasing your brother!” Mummy chided. “That’s the most important day of his life!”

“Yes. I can imagine you’re jealous that your brother received this honour but don’t pout,” threw in their father.

Mycroft winced again, and caught himself nervously fumbling with the medal around his neck, but Sherlock rolled his eyes. “They threatened me with it a couple of times, if you must know, but I always declined. I don’t need a ‘sir’ before my name.”

“What?! You _declined_ it?” Mummy’s voice was unpleasantly shrill, and Mycroft hurried to take her by the arm to usher her out of Buckingham Palace before she could demand that her other son was getting knighted on the spot at once.

Sherlock was content with the scene he had caused and made a step back to let Mycroft pass. “After you, dear brother. Am I allowed to call you that at all?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said through gritted teeth. “I’m still your damned brother.”

Sherlock laughed and the genuine amusement in the deep voice did things to Mycroft he didn’t want to be done to him while his parents were around… And the Royal Family…

“Mycroft!” he was greeted from behind and he felt Sherlock stiffen next to him. A hand was put onto his forearm, another one even brushed over his cheek, and it took all his willpower to not free himself at once.

“Lady Smallwood…”

“Congratulations, Mycroft! We arranged a little party in Whitehall for you.”

“Oh, um. My parents, and my brother…”

“Bring them! The more the merrier!” The lady – in red silk and high heels – was all (false) smiles and digging fingernails, and Mycroft could literally feel Sherlock's stare at the spot where she was touching him. Finally, he managed to casually disentangle himself from her.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Mummy said with a resolute shake of her head. “All those important people… This ceremony was overwhelming enough for us. We are simple folks, right, Siger? We’ll have lunch without you then, dear, and have a stroll in London while we’re here.”

Mycroft had planned to invite them to his favourite restaurant to celebrate the reception of his knighthood.

“The young Mister Holmes will certainly be happy to accompany you, Mrs Holmes,” purred the lady, and Mycroft thought it was wincing-day for him.

“Ah, I don’t know,” Sherlock rumbled, his eyes dangerously narrowed. “Fancy free nibbles from the government, served with cheap champagne? I’m in.”

God… It was getting worse by the minute… Mycroft shot a help-seeking glance at his mother but she didn’t even notice it.

“Yes, join your brother, Sherlock. It will be nice for you to be among such distinguished people for a change.”

God help him…

“See you at the latest at Christmas, son,” Father said, not in the least offended that there would be no celebration for them. “And congratulations again. We knew you’re important for our country, but that you are _so_ essential…”

“England would fall without him,” declared Sherlock, and Mycroft felt the urge to put him over his knee.

Sherlock deduced his thoughts and gave him a dirty grin. “What are we waiting for? I bet the PM is eager to hug you, too.”

Mycroft shuddered, knowing that his brother was right, but the lady grabbed his hand and dragged him, and he saw Sherlock glower at her and only had a chance to wave his parents goodbye before he was pulled into the sunny day and ushered into a limousine, and in the car he found himself between a furious lover and a wannabe-lover and it was all the most unpleasant.

*****

Finally this nightmare was over… But it really wasn’t… Only the party was, actually… At least for him. Mycroft’s head was throbbing when he stumbled out of the building. Cheap champagne indeed, and he had not even drunk more than a glass. But Sherlock… Oh, he had not drunk anything and had stuck to the canapés, but he had insulted basically everyone in the room – by making people poisoned compliments with a wide and decidedly insincere smile. He had teased the Prime Minister (!) with his ‘brave’ haircut, Sir Edwin with his mismatching tie that fitted ‘so well with the table cloth’. ‘Nice shoes’ he had said to one of Mycroft's colleagues who was colour-blind and had been wearing brown slippers to a black suit. But his favourite target had been Lady Smallwood, of course.

With barely suppressed jealousy (and Mycroft was so glad that nobody else had realised it for what it was) but a bright smile, he had praised her short skirt – ‘How delightfully brave to wear such a length on the wrong side of sixty’ – and asked her if her hair was always falling out in such volumes. He had also whispered totally not discreetly that she had lipstick on her teeth.

Elizabeth had been fuming but she had controlled herself admirably well and answered Sherlock's impertinent remarks coolly and without pouring her champagne over his head.

Mycroft had just winced again for a change when Sherlock had rather spitefully said to her that he was surprised that Mycroft had received this honour despite the Sherrinford debacle. His hand might have twitched a little and he had sat on it to make sure he wouldn’t give Sherlock what he deserved (and basically begged for) for being such a brat.

But the longer this torture and tension had lasted, the clearer it had become to Mycroft that Sherlock wasn’t just being deliberately difficult and unsocial. He was suffering…

In the end, Sherlock had received a text (or had pretended to receive one) and excused himself, if one wanted to call it that.

Mycroft had watched him leave, feeling bad that he was relieved, knowing he should immediately leave this insane party and follow him, also knowing that he couldn’t as it would look weird. He had sent Sherlock a text with only three words but Sherlock had not replied.

Sitting on the backseat of his car, he fired off another one.

_Sherlock. I’m out of there. Come to my place in an hour, okay? M_

Mycroft should have returned to his office to do some work but he had known he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything.

His brother didn’t reply to this one, either.

_Sherlock… Please… M_

He winced when he saw the answer that this text had finally received.

_I’m busy. Laters. SH_

When Mycroft entered his house, his shoulders were hanging, and he couldn’t have cared less that he could call himself Knight of the British Empire now. Sir Mycroft… Pfff. He had only even agreed to this nonsense because it would have been horribly impolite not to, and in contrast to Sherlock, this was not typical behaviour for him. And yes – perhaps he had felt a tiny bit flattered…

And then he had only told Sherlock about it three days before the ceremony… Knowing that Sherlock would find it ridiculous. And Sherlock had just stared at him and laughed – and not stopped teasing him in every possible moment. But that… Jealousy? Of Lady Smallwood? Was Sherlock mad? But then – it shouldn’t have come as such a surprise. Sherlock had asked about Mycroft's days very often and very thoroughly if he thought about it. Ever since they had become a couple after the events of Sherrinford. And little brother had mentioned Lady Smallwood from time to time, looking at him rather fiercely. But that was just stupid. His beautiful little brother couldn’t really fear that this old woman would take Mycroft away from him! Nobody ever would!

So when Sherlock didn’t reply to his next text, in which he had begged him to come over, Mycroft, freshly showered and shaved thoroughly, decided that he would not have dinner, let alone go to bed, with Sherlock being upset about him for no reason whatsoever. So he called his driver and was soon sitting in the car again – on his way to Baker Street.

*****

He heard the violin from the street. A sad, melancholic piece. Mycroft took a deep breath and entered the house after straightening the knocker. Thank God, Mrs Hudson was nowhere to be seen. He really didn’t want to be called a reptile again…

He had not been in Baker Street since it had been rebuilt. Which was strange, he thought. Perhaps it was because of John, who had moved back in with his daughter in tow. Mrs Hudson had apparently divided the room upstairs into two rooms so Rosamund would have her own realm when she was old enough. Obviously, John did not plan to move out so soon again…

When Sherlock had told him about the renewed flat share, after their first night together, Mycroft had just nodded and squeezed his shoulders, refraining from putting his feelings about John still being in Sherlock's life in words. He very well knew that John had saved Sherlock from Culverton Smith while he, Mycroft, had been stupidly searching Sherlock's flat for clues about what could have triggered Sherlock's succumbing to drugs. But Sherlock had ended up in this hospital, at the mercy of a serial killer, only because of John in the first place. Suffering from organ failure and the injuries his dear John had inflicted on him, Sherlock had been helpless in the hands of a murderer. It had been a close call. And Sherlock even thought he had deserved this treatment and it had been a good idea to consume more drugs than ever and almost die so bloody John Watson could come and save him.

In any way the two former flatmates and best friends had reconciled since then, and when the three of them had gone to Sherrinford to confront Eurus, the Baker Street Boys had been quite close again. And this had been the situation in which the two Holmes brothers had started to be in contact more regularly, visiting Eurus together (which was to be blamed on Sherlock's soft heart, not Mycroft's wish to bond with the sister who had wanted to see him die) and gradually get along better and better until they had both realised that they had, as unexpected and unheard of it was, fallen in love with each other. Mycroft had found himself admitting that he did have a heart in the end and that it belonged to Sherlock. And Sherlock had fallen for him quite spectacularly, too, and perhaps he was the more jealous and insecure of the two of them.

Mycroft might have always suspiciously controlled those who had dared come close to his little brother (and had still missed all the times when they had harmed Sherlock, much to his chagrin). Had he kidnapped John Watson on the first day of his acquaintance with Sherlock out of the will to protect his brother? Or had it been jealousy? He was not beyond saying that it might have been both.

But now that they were lovers, he was, surprisingly enough, not jealous. Not of the ever-present John – as he clearly was not romantically interested in Sherlock. Not of the pathetic Miss Hooper – as Sherlock did not really love her. Not of loyal Greg Lestrade – he was more of a father figure for his brother, and a very reliable and welcome one, certainly. Not of Irene Adler – as she was reduced to a moaning sound on Sherlock's phone and would never lay her dirty hands on him again.

In fact, even though he did know that Sherlock was the pretty one and the far more interesting one of the two of them and that he could have had just anyone, really, Mycroft didn’t fear that Sherlock would ride into the sunset with someone else anytime soon. Sherlock could have had his pick among the handsomest and richest but he had still chosen him. Sherlock just didn’t feel like other people. He needed… stimulation. Not only sexually – there would have certainly been others who could have given him exactly what he needed in that regard. But Sherlock would never fall for a goldfish. He despised them. They might be useful for him and to some of them he had taken a liking – but this liking did not go deep enough to consider them a worthy partner as they could never be his equal. Apart from the late Moriarty maybe, but Sherlock might have flirted with the man to some extent but wouldn’t have fallen for a truly bad boy, either. Mycroft was his equal, and even though Sherlock had denied this for practically decades, they were on the same side. The good side. None of them was an angel but they had dedicated their lives to fighting for the right side, each in his own way. Sherlock might think that he only did that to keep the ever-threatening boredom at bay but in fact, he was a good boy. So not even the super charismatic Napoleon of crime had been a contender for winning Sherlock's heart.

Mycroft had it, and he knew it. How could Sherlock doubt that it was the same for him? It was all the most amazing, really.

And so Mycroft entered his brother’s flat now, despite knowing that the man his brother liked so much but had done so much harm to him was probably present, as he needed to talk some sense into his vulnerable lover.

Sherlock looked up when he entered, his eyes brightening up for a split second before he remembered that he was cross with him and stubbornly turned away, continuing his play.

“Oh, wow, Mycroft. You've got a key?” John asked. He had his laptop on his knees; probably he was writing something for this inane blog of his.

“You can't just call him ‘Mycroft’ anymore,” chided Sherlock, stopping eliciting sad tunes out of his instrument for the moment. “It is ‘ _Sir_ Mycroft’ now.”

“Wait, what?”

“Yep. My brother might call himself a knight now for his services for our Queen.” Sherlock's voice had a decidedly malicious tone as if he was implying that these ‘services’ had been of a questionable nature.

“Damn. Congratulations!” John put his laptop aside and got up to offer Mycroft his hand.

Mycroft took it with reluctance. How was he supposed to get rid of Sherlock's flatmate so he could talk to his brotherly lover? “Thank you,” he said politely.

“Man, what an honour that is.” John sounded awestruck to Mycroft's surprise. It wasn’t as if the angry little man had ever been very fond of him after all. “But I mean, yeah. You dedicated your life to Queen and country. It’s great that they are acknowledging that.”

“Ah, please. Stop praising him. Isn’t his ego huge enough already?” snarled Sherlock, putting his precious Stradivarius onto the floor rather carelessly.

“Well, I know two of them,” mumbled John.

Sherlock glowered at him. “And you do also know that they wanted to knight me for ages and I always told them to piss off.”

“Probably in the exact words,” muttered John, not in the least offended by Sherlock's tone. He sat down again and took his phone. “Yeah. Here it is. Wow. Knight of the British Empire. That’s a very good one!”

“Stop it!” thundered Sherlock. “It’s boring. Are you at least bringing a case, Sir Brother?”

 _Yes_ , thought Mycroft, still standing in the middle of the newly renovated living room. _The case of the inexplicable behaviour of the man I love._

Sherlock stared at him for a moment and Mycroft let him see how he was feeling. To his relief, Sherlock lowered his gaze, tightening his jaw, his shoulders slumping. This wasn’t rage. It was something else… But how to get it out of him with the doctor looking from one brother to the other?

But then John got up and cleared his throat. “Well, it’s time to go. Where did I leave my bag?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. “How would _I_ know?!”

“Yeah, right. Ah, yeah. Rosie’s room. See you on Monday then.”

Mycroft turned to him. “You are travelling, Doctor Watson?”

“Oh, please. After all we’ve been through together? John, huh?” The little man gave him a look of surprisingly fond exasperation. Then he nodded. “Visiting Harry. My sister. She wants some time with her niece… And she’s doing well these days. Needs a reward. And I guess it’s important to spend time with your siblings… and to be nice to them!” This was definitely directed at Sherlock, who sighed and picked at a nail of his left hand, knowing that Mycroft hated that.

For a moment Mycroft wondered if John had figured out how much time they had been spending with each other during the past few months. John had never been easy to read for him. But would he really suggest them being nice to each other if he knew exactly how nice they indeed were with one another – most of the time? Certainly not. But who could tell with John… He had obviously run the full circle from life-saver over best friend to enemy and assaulter to life-saver and best friend again. Mycroft had hated the thought of him returning to this place as if nothing bad had happened between him and Sherlock but he had to admit that John had some good influence on his brother once more. He made Sherlock eat, he kept him from running into too much danger… He was obviously still struggling with the loss of his wife, the dear assassin that had almost killed Sherlock (a fact which Mycroft had also not gotten at that time) and then had made up for it by saving his life. The Watsons were easy to hate – but one had to give them credit for also doing some good things for Mr _Attracts-Drama-Wherever-He-Goes_.

John bade them goodbye and then disappeared upstairs to fetch his daughter and his luggage. Why he was travelling with a little child at this time of day was beyond Mycroft, but he didn't ask. It was none of his business and not that interesting, anyway.

Mycroft looked at Sherlock silently when he heard the man’s steps on the stairs, where he was apparently struggling with all the stuff he had to carry. So Sherlock had of course known that John would leave for a few days. He had also known that if he didn’t react to Mycroft's texts and refused to come to his house, Mycroft would come to him.

Mycroft finally sat down – on the couch, a few metres away from Sherlock. “Come here,” he calmly said when he had heard the front door closing behind the doctor and his child.

Sherlock shrugged. “What for?”

He sounded rather meek. It made Mycroft's heart melt. “Because I’m Sir Mycroft now and you are a peasant and have to obey.”

Sherlock snorted as expected. “I’m probably supposed to sit on the floor next to your feet, right?”

“No. Right next to me. Or on my lap, whatever you prefer.” Mycroft just hoped that Mrs Hudson wouldn’t come upstairs. But they would certainly hear her.

“Hudders is with her bridge ladies,” Sherlock informed him while finally getting up. “Won’t come home until late at night and will be totally tipsy then and just stumble straight into her flat.”

Very convenient… “Fine. So we are all alone.” If a client showed up – or, God forbid, Lestrade – they would have to ring the doorbell or use the knocker.

Sherlock nodded, approaching him with slow steps. His face had darkened again and Mycroft just couldn’t tell why.

He reached out and pulled Sherlock onto his thighs when Sherlock was close enough. Sherlock huffed and slung his arms around his neck, slumping against him like a sack of potatoes but smelling and feeling much nicer.

Mycroft embraced his slim waist and kissed his forehead. “Tell me what’s wrong, little brother.” His phone was off. Something he rarely ever did. But he had felt that the last thing they needed now was anyone who called him to congratulate him. And they would… The names of the honorees were published and even though he didn’t have any friends, there were people he met from time to time for government purposes and had not been at the party. And perhaps even some ghastly relatives would grace him with a call if Mummy had given them his number in her enthusiasm…

“Don’t like it.” Sherlock’s voice was barely a whisper.

“I’d figured out as much,” Mycroft said, stroking his hair. “But why? Don’t tell me you’re jealous of a certain colleague…”

“She’s always wanted to get into your pants,” accused Sherlock, raising his head to glower at him.

“Be that as it may but you do know that I would never do anything with her!” The sheer thought made him nauseous.

“Well, doesn’t have to be her, does it? Now that you’re a famous knight, all the men will sniff around you, too.”

Mycroft was speechless for a moment. “I… Sherlock, I love you. Only you. I don’t even look at anyone else!”

“You smiled… at the prince…”

“Dear God. The prince with the pretty wife and the three children? That prince?”

“Saw it…” insisted Sherlock.

“I’ve known him since he was a little boy,” Mycroft said, shaking his head.

“Yeah… Like me…”

Mycroft couldn’t help but chuckle. “That was a low blow, little brother. I can assure you that I am not interested in anyone but you. And that is not going to change just because I may call myself ‘Sir Mycroft’ now. And not for any other reason, either!” he immediately added when Sherlock opened his mouth.

The detective nodded, darkly. “If you say so…”

And finally Mycroft realised that there was another reason for Sherlock's condition. He _was_ jealous indeed, so much was sure. He had shown that even before this knighthood-nonsense. But there was more to it. He cupped Sherlock chin and gently forced him to look up to him.

“Sherlock… Tell me. What is this really about?”

Sherlock just made a small noise of discomfort and didn't answer.

Mycroft wouldn’t have it. “Tell me… Or I’ll tickle you.”

That brought him another snort. “If you want to celebrate your big day with a broken nose, go ahead.”

“Not really. It’s ugly enough as it is.”

“It’s not!” growled Sherlock. “It’s a lovely nose and I adore it.”

Mycroft smiled and pecked him on the cheek. “That’s good to hear, baby boy. And now tell me.”

Sherlock threw his hands into the air and almost fell off his lap on the go. “Don’t you see it?”

Mycroft had caught him and held him even tighter now. “No, obviously not. Maybe I’m the slow one today.”

“Not just today. Ow!” Sherlock glowered at him but his eyes were smiling. But he turned serious again the next moment. “It’s as plain as day.”

“Elaborate, Sherlock!”

“People will know now that we’re brothers!” burst out the younger man. “We were always so careful about it. Magnussen figured it out and you saw what happened.”

“You drugged me, stole my laptop to sell state secrets to him and then shot him when he didn't play along,” Mycroft said dryly. “What does this have to do with me being a knight? Or with anyone… Oh…”

“Yes. Oh. He knew that I am your weak spot. And now every criminal I deal with will know that I have a brother.”

He did have a point… “But you’re not afraid that they could figure out what else we are?”

Sherlock's face darkened. “I really hope not. But they don’t even have to. They could… take revenge for me getting them into prison by…”

“...targeting _me_.” Mycroft nodded. “I see. But Sherlock… You know I can look after myself, don’t you? Nobody knows my address. And even if anyone finds out where I live - since someone broke into my house and messed up all my security, I made sure nobody can do that again.”

“Wonder who that was,” mumbled Sherlock, and Mycroft smiled.

“A man who liked to torture me instead of just asking about our sister.”

“I did apologise for that. As well as two million other things I did to you…”

Mycroft squeezed him tight. “You did and it’s fine. And I promise you, Sherlock – I will take even better care of myself. I won’t walk around alone in any dangerous places. I will take a gun with me. Not the little one in my umbrella. A real gun. Nobody will…” And now he fully understood Sherlock's fears. “Nobody will take me away from you. No Lady Smallwood, no hunky boy and no revenge-seeking criminal.”

“S’not funny,” Sherlock mumbled against his neck, and Mycroft rubbed his back.

“No. It’s not. But I won’t let it happen. And now let’s go.”

“Where?” Sherlock pulled back to be able to look at him.

“To your bedroom. You did plan that, didn't you? You knew you would be alone this evening and you knew I would come if you didn't come to me.”

“I might have considered it,” Sherlock admitted, modestly.

“Well then. Let’s get comfortable, hm?”

“Will you fuck me?” Sherlock's voice had changed completely.

Mycroft gave him a stern look. “No, Sherlock. I will make love to you.”

And finally Sherlock smiled at him and his whole face lightened up and it made Mycroft's heart make a weird little dance. “Call it whatever you like, sir. As long as your large cock ends up in my bum, I’m in. Or rather: _you’ll_ be in.” Sherlock stood up and grabbed Mycroft's hand to pull him from the couch.

“You are completely insolent and unbearable.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” was the unimpressed reply.

Mycroft shook his head with a fond smile, his heart full of emotion for this complicated man he was allowed to call his own. And he was going to show him just what he meant to him.


	2. Chapter 2

God, how much he loved him… They had been together for several months now but Sherlock was still stunned every time they met, and especially every time they kissed or touched or Mycroft's cock got hard in his grip. It was not healthy to be so in love, Sherlock assumed. Once he had called love a ‘dangerous disadvantage’ and wasn’t it true?

There was not a moment in which he didn’t think of him. Whatever he did, he wondered what Mycroft was doing right now. Or what he would say to Sherlock's actions. How he would smile if Sherlock touched his face now. Or kissed his beautifully shaped lips.

He loved the dimple in Mycroft's chin. How could something so small be so appealing? So… adorable… He never said such words to Mycroft. He didn’t think Mycroft would laugh at him. But perhaps he would think that Sherlock had become a little bit weak.

And he was! A long time ago, Jim Moriarty had targeted the people he thought meant the most to Sherlock. And they did mean a lot to him. But compared to what he was now feeling for his brother, his sentiments for everybody else paled. Even his (platonic!) feelings for John.

Sherlock would have never imagined that he could fall in love like this. And for nobody else than his brother after all! For so many years, they had been estranged like siblings really should not be. For many reasons. Mycroft being so much older and so much more sincere. A grown man in his heart when he had only been a boy – and Sherlock a little child. Due to the age gap, Mycroft had left home when Sherlock had still been so young. And the whole _Forgetting-Eurus-And-Victor_ affair had been the nail to that coffin. Then the drugs – and Mycroft's exasperated (and, as Sherlock very well knew) totally justified reaction to it. Mycroft had appeared to be the spoilsport, the unwanted voice of reason. It had only gotten better when they had prepared his mission to dismantle Moriarty's network. They had worked together very well. But then Sherlock had been away for two long years, and when he had come back, he'd had to deal with having lost his best friend. With nightmares about his mission he had lived through all alone. Mary. Magnussen. The second and much worse fallout with John after involuntarily causing Mary’s death.

The last years, this post fake-death period, had been filled with grief and guilt and pain. The only real lifelines had been his work, Mrs Hudson – and Mycroft. The brothers had been on much better terms after Sherlock's return albeit not being exactly close.

And then Sherlock had felt betrayed by him when he had found out about Eurus. He did regret his actions following his discovery – scaring Mycroft with these creepy people. It had not been a kind thing to do. But his brother sort of had it coming. He should have told Sherlock about Eurus latest when they had dealt with Moriarty. Without those games in Sherrinford, Mycroft would have never told him that the crime lord had met their sister. Who had made who target Sherlock? Had it been Eurus’ idea to turn his life upside down? Or had it been Jim who had pursued this because he was obsessed with Sherlock because of the Carl-Powers-case? It didn’t matter to him anymore. He would have asked Eurus perhaps but she still didn’t talk. He had cut down his visits in Sherrinford to once a month. She didn’t seem to mind.

Sherlock was too busy to go there more often. He lived with John again and looked after Rosie sometimes when John went to his shifts in the clinic. Usually, Mrs Hudson or Molly took care of the girl and she did go to day care in the mornings but sometimes he did his godfatherly duties. He had his cases. And he had Mycroft.

They didn’t spend as much time together as Sherlock would have liked. They were both busy men and Mycroft did have meetings late in the evening sometimes, too. But they did meet up about three times a week. Sometimes they were able to spend a full weekend together. And Sherlock had to restrain himself to not be all over his brother all the time when they were together. He wasn’t just addicted to the sex even though that was a huge part of it. He, the notorious virgin, had discovered what all this fuss really was about. He loved it. He loved exploring Mycroft's delicious body again and again. He loved being taken. Sometimes he took Mycroft, too, and he loved that as well. But he had discovered a more submissive streak in himself. Mycroft was used to being in control, work-wise, and Sherlock liked to let him have it when they were intimate with each other as well. He liked to be dominated by a man seven years his senior, with so much more experience and so much patience and care.

He loved making love to his brother. He loved kissing him for an hour, preferably longer. He loved listening to his beautiful voice. Especially when it made noises of arousal and satisfaction. He loved seeing his brother smile at him. He loved just being with him, their fingers entwined, his face buried in the crook of his lover’s neck.

In fact, he was just madly in love with Mycroft and he guessed Mycroft did know that. Sherlock didn’t like to tell him. But he was open in showing it. He just couldn’t hide it.

And he was jealous, even of that old woman. He was afraid that Mycroft could fall in love with someone else, someone who wouldn’t have to be kept a dirty secret. What did he even see in him? Sherlock had caused him nothing but trouble and hurt for decades. It was a miracle for him that Mycroft loved him back.

He couldn’t lose him. Mycroft had once said to him that his loss would break his heart. But Sherlock knew that if anyone harmed Mycroft to get back at him, it would _shatter_ him, and nobody would be able to put the pieces together again.

Perhaps he was being silly. Mycroft was a big boy. If attacked, he would certainly use the gun he had promised Sherlock to always carry with him. Only that he couldn’t do that anyway, could he? If he met an ambassador for example, or go to Buckingham Palace again, he would hardly be able to carry a weapon. Oh, why hadn’t Mycroft stayed the shadowy string-puller nobody had known about? Why did he have to end up with his full name on the internet? Probably there would be at least one YouTube video of his knighting for everybody to watch. To leer for him and to memorise his looks to attack him.

Sherlock felt his pulse speed up again, and then a large hand was put onto his cheek and blue eyes that used to be so cold when looking at other people glanced at him with an expression full of affection and understanding.

“It will be all right, Sherlock. I promise.”

“You can't,” Sherlock said meekly. “Not even you can control every situation and everybody.”

“I will make an extra effort to assure it.” Mycroft bent forward and kissed him, and Sherlock cursed himself for not talking to him about his fears before his brother had accepted this sodding knighthood.

Mycroft would have declined it if he had known about Sherlock's feelings. Sherlock was sure about that. But he had felt too embarrassed and shy to openly say it, instead he had just teased and mocked him with it and sulked. And then he'd just had to attend the ceremony as he was so proud of his man, and now the whole world knew that they were brothers. And if anyone found out about the real nature of their relationship… Sherlock shuddered at the thought despite the lovely kiss he was just performing with the man he loved so much.

Mycroft broke the kiss and eyed him closely, deducing his thoughts easily. “Darling. If that happens, be assured that I’ll have a way out for us.”

“You do?” Sherlock felt awestruck. Mycroft was really prepared for running away with him? Because that was what he meant. Give up all his power, his home, his entire life, for him?

“Of course I do. You think I would have started a law-breaking relationship without considering and preparing for the consequences? I would prefer if we never needed that way out though. So would you, I assume.”

Yes. Of course Sherlock did. He did love his job and he would miss his friends. But he would be ready to give it all up in an instant if it was necessary.

Mycroft saw it in his eyes and nodded, satisfied. “Believe me when I say that if push comes to shove, I’ll drop everything to be able to be together with you in a safe place. We should have spoken about this earlier. I'm sorry.”

“And I'm sorry that I didn’t keep you from becoming a bloody knight,” rumbled Sherlock, still feeling decidedly moved.

Mycroft smiled. “Don't you like me to be your knight in shining armour?”

“You've always been,” Sherlock said, seriously. “You wouldn’t have needed a balding prince slapping you with a sword to be that for me. I want you to be _my_ knight and only mine…” God… He really _was_ clingy and embarrassing…

But Mycroft’s handsome face didn’t show any sign of exasperation. “I am and I always will be, little brother.”

“Show me,” asked Sherlock, and Mycroft nodded, stroking over his curls, smiling at him.

“That was my plan, dear.”

They were lying on Sherlock's bed, the door was locked, they were naked, and Sherlock wanted him so badly. “Good plan,” he mumbled, and he pulled Mycroft in for another kiss – a kiss that got frantic within mere moments. And then Sherlock was gently pushed onto his back and he handed himself over to the man he was so awfully, wonderfully crazy for.

*****

Mycroft covered his beloved’s body in kisses. He made sure to press his lips on every inch of the smooth, soft skin of Sherlock's long neck and broad chest. Both of his nipples were showered with extra attention by his tongue, too. He kissed the angry scar a certain bullet had left and then he moved southwards to worship Sherlock's impressive abs and tease his cute little navel before his tongue followed the trail of dark hair to his neatly trimmed pubes.

Sherlock was not keeping still throughout this treatment, of course. He was moaning and sighing and stammering incoherent words and his beautiful hands were busy with caressing the back of Mycroft's head or playing with his ears, sometimes pulling at them.

Finally Mycroft had reached the first really delicate destination – Sherlock's fully hard, gorgeously long and appealingly reddened cock, and he closed his eyes when he lapped at the fat crown, tasting Sherlock's pre-seminal fluid. When Sherlock made an adorably strangled noise, he grinned and took the engorged head into his mouth and sloppily suckled at it, making a string of curses flow from Sherlock's sensual lips.

Dwelling on the sweet and yet musky taste and the silky, smooth texture, he began sucking him in earnest, very focused on Sherlock's reactions as he didn’t plan to make him come just by giving head to him. Of course Sherlock would be ready for a second round very soon again but this was not just any casual sex. It was sex to deliver a message – that Mycroft was _his_ and wouldn’t go anywhere – and it felt important to him to make it right.

So when Sherlock was clearly close to the edge, Mycroft stopped his oral efforts – making Sherlock whine in protest.

“Shhh. Patience,” Mycroft said with a smile while reaching for a pillow to put it beneath Sherlock's spectacular behind. “I know that’s a foreign concept to you but bear with me, please.”

“Hmpf,” grumbled Sherlock. “Yes, sir, if you insist…”

Mycroft chuckled and reached for the top drawer of Sherlock's bed stand where he knew he would find a bottle of lubricant. Setting it onto the bed for now, he rearranged Sherlock's legs over his shoulders and spread his gorgeous globes to reveal that cute pink hole.

“Oh, yes,” stammered Sherlock. “Lick me, brother.”

“Shall I?” Mycroft blew over the wrinkled opening, making it twitch heftily. “Oh, it’s winking at me,” he purred, and Sherlock burst into hysterical giggles, just as he had planned.

“You’re crazy… What would your Queen say if she saw us now?”

“I really don’t want to imagine,” Mycroft said dryly. “I don't reckon she would be very amused…”

“Oh, who knows with those old ladies… Mrs Hudson might like it,” Sherlock mused, and Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“Please! Next you will probably bring up Mummy!”

“Yuck! Get your tongue in my arse, Mycroft; it will make you stop talking about such ghastly stuff!”

Mycroft laughed and shook his head. “As you demand, sir. Oh, wait, no, that’s me.”

“Shut up and eat my arse!” thundered the horny detective, sounding so much more like himself and not like the scared boy he had just been.

Grinning and feeling content with these developments, Mycroft had mercy and bent down to do exactly that.

*****

Sherlock simply melted into the pillows. His hand wrapped around his achingly hard cock, he floated on cloud nine while Mycroft did the most pleasurable things to his rear end with the help of his seemingly endlessly long tongue and his equally long fingers. He fought down the urge to come while Mycroft was producing highly indecent slurping noises and licked him out so expertly as if he didn't do anything else in his life.

He needed to feel another part of his brother inside of him and he knew Mycroft craved for giving it to him. But this kind of foreplay was indecently hot and Sherlock's cock was leaking onto his hand now while Mycroft’s tongue seemed to be searching for gold. And judging by the greedy noises his brother was producing, he might have even found it.

There was simply nothing dirtier and more exciting than having his lover, his brother, licking his hole as if there was no tomorrow, and when Mycroft stopped, his face heated, his lips swollen and his eyes dazed, Sherlock was a mess and as ready to be taken and fucked into oblivion as anyone could get.

“Did you like that?” Mycroft asked him with a hoarse voice.

“Not a bit,” Sherlock lied, reaching out to cup his cheek.

“Thought so. Well, maybe you’ll like my cock up your pert little arse a bit better?”

Mycroft’s eyes were sparkling, and he looked younger than his years. Young and lively and in love, and Sherlock wished he could take a picture of his face now.

Well, he could have, but he assumed that Mycroft would not like that very much, and Sherlock was too far gone to even reach out for his phone. Besides, this picture would now grace the entrance of his mind palace forever. “Yes,” he said. “I think I would like that.”

“Then you shall have it. How do you want it? Like this?”

“Yes,” nodded Sherlock. “Missionary style so I can watch your face.”

“If the missionaries only knew…” mused Mycroft, and Sherlock giggled.

“They would be a tad shocked maybe.”

“They would move to Antarctica.”

“Well, _you_ are… Antarctica.” Mycroft's secret service code name… How very not fitting…

“I am. The Iceman.”

“Not for me. And _I’m_ not a virgin.”

“Decidedly not,” agreed Mycroft, grimacing a bit at the memory of the woman who had brought up those ‘endearments’.

But Sherlock had been exactly that until they had fallen in love with each other. As if he had known that he was waiting for the one man who was worth it. And he had. And there would never be anyone else.

“Mine, hm?” Mycroft said, tilting his head, while he was working some lubrication into Sherlock's loosened entrance.

“Always. And you?”

“Do you really have to ask?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don't think so.”

“Good. It is very flattering that you should be jealous because of me but be assured that you don't have any reason for it.” Mycroft lined his cock up against him and then lowered his body onto Sherlock's.

Sherlock felt the flexible head nudging against his sticky hole, and then Mycroft slid in ever so carefully. It burnt a bit and stretched him nicely, and Sherlock loved this moment. The moment in which they became as intimately connected as humanly possible.

“Okay?” Mycroft asked, his face close to Sherlock's now, looking at him from beneath those beautiful, long lashes, his face glowing with affection.

“Very. You can move.” Sherlock slung his arms around his brother’s neck and raised his hips a bit to give him easier access, and he felt the hot, hard boner penetrating him, and then Mycroft's lips were on his, his tongue demanding entrance, and they kissed while Mycroft started to move his hips in a slow, careful rhythm.

*****

As always, moving in Sherlock felt like being in another world. A world that consisted only of the two of them and only this exact moment. Gone were any bad memories of fear and hurt and worry, of misunderstandings, resentments and estrangement. Gone was any fear of what the future might bring – and Mycroft did not fear for his own safety but, naturally, for Sherlock's. Sherlock was the one with the dangerous occupation. In this alone he was glad to see John back in his life. Because what had happened when John had seemed to be gone for good after the unfortunate passing of his wife? Sherlock had – just like when he had gone after Charles Augustus Magnussen – resumed his very undesirable drug habit and risked his life in more than one way to get his friend back. Mycroft wouldn’t have been there anymore if John had come too late to save his brother from the murderous gnome – as there would have been no life for him anymore without Sherlock. And he wouldn’t have been there if Sherlock had really shot himself in Sherrinford. What a horribly, amazingly brave and totally insane move that had been… But in the end, Sherlock had been smarter than Eurus, and definitely way smarter than him…

They had been through so much – Sherlock had been dancing on the edge for all his adult life and Mycroft had spent this time fearing for him. And he would fear for him again every time Sherlock took a dangerous case in the future. But he wouldn’t try to keep him from doing it because he couldn’t and because this preference for danger and excitement was so essentially Sherlock. And Mycroft wouldn’t have wanted him to change. Just to take care of himself. But Sherlock knew that, and he had not hurled himself into too much danger ever since they had fallen in love. It would in all probability happen again as these cases seemed to find Sherlock – and hopefully John or Lestrade would look after him then as Mycroft would not be around to do it. He might be the master of the street cameras but he would not be at Sherlock's side when it counted so he had to count on the assistance of Sherlock's friends.

But now Sherlock was here. Now Mycroft was literally covering him with his own weight, a part of him buried deep inside him, Sherlock’s breath hot and elevated against his lips or into his mouth when they kissed in the rhythm of his increasingly deep thrusts. Sherlock's legs were slung around his waist and his hands were cupping his cheeks or sliding over his back and sides. They were connected in so many ways and it felt as if nothing could ever harm either of them. Mycroft felt deeply moved by Sherlock's burning wish to protect him – a role reversal that he had not expected. But of course he would always feel like his baby brother's protector, too. Sherlock had made a vow for protecting the Watsons – and it had horribly backfired at him. And Mycroft was sure that Sherlock had made a similar vow regarding him without explicitly telling him, and Mycroft would do everything in his power to assure that this vow would not fail. He would make sure to always be safe so Sherlock would never break over losing him. And he frankly didn’t want to miss out on a single second of being with him.

And when he pumped into him harder now, urged on by Sherlock's feet that were impatiently pressing him down, holding his little brother as tight as he could without suffocating him, he sent this message to Sherlock wordlessly.

_I’m yours and you’re mine and nothing is going to change that._

When he came, he captured Sherlock's mouth in a fierce kiss, emptying himself deep into his body, and then he felt spurts of wetness against his chest when Sherlock followed him, their lips and tongues still busy in their dance of devotion and reassurance. He stayed where he was when they had both finished shuddering themselves through their respective climaxes, unwilling to break the contact, and they continued to kiss until Mycroft's softening cock slipped out, followed by a trickle of semen, and he lay down next to Sherlock, pulling him in again at once.

“That was…” Sherlock mumbled, obviously at a loss for words.

“Very,” confirmed Mycroft. “Lovely, hm?”

“Yeah…”

“Are you convinced now that I won’t go anywhere?”

“Not quite. You’ll have to work harder on it.”

Mycroft smiled, raising his hand to card it through Sherlock's slightly sweaty curls. “I will. And will you be nice to Lady S. the next time you meet her?”

“Nope.”

“Just as I thought… And when someone tries to steal me from you…”

“I’m going to kill them!” promised Sherlock with a fierce glare.

“Excellent. Exactly what I expected.” Mycroft pulled him even closer against his chest. “I love you, little brother. I don't tell you often enough but I do. Like crazy.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. From the bottom of the heart I always declined to have.”

“That was stupid, Mycroft.”

“ _Sir_ Mycroft, if you please.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and Mycroft laughed, and then they kissed again – the knight and his light. And eventually, they drifted off to sleep, entwined with each other, and both of them knew that they would hold onto this with all their power and determination as they had both found in each other what they had never thought they would have – their other half.

The End


End file.
